


I See My Life In Terms of Music

by HannahJane



Series: Can't No Preacher Man Save My Soul [3]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Drama, F/M, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Romance, UST, song drabbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-17 17:11:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannahJane/pseuds/HannahJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If I were not a physicist, I would probably be a musician. I often think in music. I live my daydreams in music. I see my life in terms of music.”<br/>― Albert Einstein</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Goodbye In Her Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> A series of song drabbles 500-1000 words long that further describe the relationship between Logan Charmer, Miles Matheson, and Sebastian Monroe.

 

_I saw goodbye in her eyes_  
I don't think I can change it  
There's no way to disguise  
We will never make it

_-Zac Brown Band_

* * *

_She had found what she'd been looking for_

_And I knew it wasn't me_

 

It’s a sudden epiphany. Realization spreads through Bass like the plague, a river of ice choking his veins. It’s a combination of things: the tilt of her head, Miles’ eyes softening for a split second, the way one slim finger precisely pushes the horseman figurine back half a foot from where Miles had placed it on the map.

 

“We aren’t marching a dozen miles out of our way just to avoid some allegedly _haunted_ town.” Miles says, his lips flattening into a scowl.

 

Bass hears, “I need you.”

 

“I’m not saying it’s haunted, I’m saying that’s the local legend and it’s bad for morale. Don’t treat me like an idiot, Matheson,” Logan retorts.

 

Bass hears, “I want you.”

 

At some point when he hadn’t been looking, his best friend had fallen in love… with the same girl as Bass.

 

“Bass?” the inquisitiveness in Miles’ voice draws him back to the present. They’re both waiting for him to settle the argument, to side with one or the other. He looks from Logan to Miles and back again. Words form on the tip of his tongue and he bites them back, swallows his broken heart.

 

“Uh, sorry, what are we talking about?”

 

******

 

_The life she wanted_ _‒_ _it was gone_

_Prince Charming_ _‒_ _I wasn't_

Miles never wanted the life that Ben chose: blissful matrimony, 1.5 kids, a house in the suburbs. It was too confining, claustrophobic in a way that made Miles want to run and run and never look back. The women he dated before the Blackout hadn’t understood that, had pressured and pushed until they’d found themselves standing on the wrong side of his door. Bass congratulated him each time on escaping the ball and chain.

 

Then the lights went out and now Miles stands here in the doorway and watches a herd of toddlers with dirty faces leap and play and laugh in the grass and he wants it. He wants someone to come home to, to listen to him bitch about Bass’s irascibility, to swing his son up in his arms and make him scream with laughter. Miles wants to be happy again.

 

Someone bumps his elbow and Miles starts out of his reverie, blinks down at Charmer who has joined him in the doorway, the younger sibling of one of the playing children propped on her hip, his sleeping face pressed against the curve of her neck.

 

Now that the lights are out, Miles can see what he wants.

 

******

 

_He's gonna love the way you shine_

_So did I_

Some days, she thinks about leaving, about saddling a mount and taking off under the cover of darkness, riding until there aren’t any more gray uniforms and she can’t feel the way that they both look at her.

 

Logan shifts on her bedroll, staring up at the pre-dawn sky, the streaks of pink lighting up the gray. On either side of her, the soft breathing of the two most fearsome men on the Eastern seaboard is steady and even, curled in their own blankets.

 

Bass has moved closer in his sleep, his elbow resting against her bicep, a steady point of contact, warmth against the September morning. On the other side, Miles sleeps with his back to her, but he’s also at the edge of his bedroll, closer than he had been when they’d all fallen asleep last night.

 

Some days, Logan thinks about giving in, about telling them the truth. That one is at the forefront of her mind just as much as the other, that she can’t think of one without the other.

 

A bird chirps in the trees, Miles stirs beside her, and Logan thinks about leaving.

 

Bass’s elbow presses harder like he knows what she’s thinking.


	2. Tip It On Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tip it on back, make it feel good   
> Sip a little more then you think you should   
> Let the smoke roll, over your lips   
> Let it all go whatever it is   
> And tip it on back 
> 
> \- Tip It On Back- Dierks Bentley

_I don't wanna lose this feeling_

_And I don't wanna close my eyes_

_I don't wanna remember what I'm here to forget tonight_

 

Four dead, a dozen wounded and a quarter of that number expected to die soon. Logan rubs soot and sweat out of her eyes with the back of her hand, shakes some loose hanks of hair out of her face, and fights back the tears that threaten to overwhelm. Her legs shake with exhaustion and adrenaline and she just wants to sink to the ground in front of the barracks, watch it burn, bright and hot. The rough fabric of her coat rubs at the angry burns on her palms, scraping it into a white-hot spiral of pain and memory.

The attacks are getting worse, more personal. The logical part of Logan’s brain wants to take note of the planning that must have gone into this, the organization that the raiders are showing. The other part just wants to break down because Partinson has two kids under the age of seven and Mardis just celebrated his thirty-seventh birthday. The men in her unit before the Blackout hadn’t ever had time to be anything other than a nameplate and rank insignia. Mardis… she’d kissed him on the cheek two days ago, joining in the laughter at the flush that fanned out from under his beard. The tears are now threatening to choke her, closing her throat, scorching her eyes.

What is she doing? The realization strikes hard, arcing through her like an electrical charge. She’s nineteen, too young for this kind of responsibility, too young to be watching people die in front of her, just… too young. Something in the wreckage of the barracks shifts, falls, sending up a shower of sparks and fresh heat into the night sky. Logan steps back from the onslaught, stumbling when she comes up against a solid body. A hand, solid and big, curves around her waist, steadies her. It’s a familiar, comfortably gentle touch.

“Don’t let them see you cry,” Jeremy says in her ear, his voice raspy from inhaling the smoke. “If they see you fall apart, they’ll turn into Bass and Miles and right now, we need the other guys.” His hand doesn’t move, braces her as if he can sense her turmoil. Logan shudders once, the tears brimming in her eyes, and then straightens, squaring her shoulders and dragging a filthy sleeve across her face. Her hands ache, but she turns them palm down, hiding the damage, gives Jeremy a bob of the head.

“Atta girl,” Jeremy says softly, squeezing her around the middle once more before he turns and returns to the bucket brigade.

Logan wraps her arms around herself at the edge of the circle of light from the barracks and watches it burn.

 

* * *

 

_So grab the girl you came with_

_And set her world on fire_

The no-longer dislocated shoulder hurts like hell, set back firmly into its socket. His head is throbbing from the ham-fisted agony of field first aid and gasoline-fueled smoke, but nothing hurts more than the look on Charmer’s face. There’s something to be said about that.

On the edge of the activity, she stands alone, shoulders hunched, visibly waiting for the next blow to fall. Two of the bodies in the flames had been her men, older than Charmer, but willing to follow her into Hell and back. He shakes his head at the poor metaphor, turns back to his position in the bucket brigade, each newly filled bucket sending agony racing through his body.

By the time the fire is corralled, Miles is dead on his feet. Everything aches and he feels sick to his stomach. Bass is just as wiped, leaning against a nearby fence post, streaked with soot and sweat, his ordinarily bright eyes dull. They stand together quietly, breathing in smoke-tainted air, neither one saying things that the other already knows. Of course, the quiet doesn’t last.

“Talk,” Jeremy says, pushing a reluctant looking Charmer forward, the latter still retaining her hunched-shoulder posture. There’s a porcelain set to her face like she’s desperately trying to hold it all together, to be stronger than she’s really feeling. When no words appear to be forthcoming, Jeremy grunts in exasperation, grabs her wrist, and holds her hand out towards them. Seeing the angry blistered skin, Miles sighs, rolling his eyes skyward and Bass curses.

“You’re a public health hazard,” he says and for a moment, there’s a flash of something wild and fierce in her eyes, defiant to the nth degree and lust inexplicably stirs low in the pit of Miles’ stomach, always looking for a challenge. Then that spark is gone, shuttered behind that impassivity that she always manages to exude.

In the end, Charmer’s hands are bandaged with a minimum of swearing and when Miles comes back to their temporary HQ with a bottle of whiskey, she silently takes it and takes a swig worthy of any Marine. She comes up coughing, eyes watering, and Miles can’t bite back his smile.

* * *

 

_And watch her sway and singing to the music_

_Until it's all alright_

Bass stirs, dimly aware of something tickling his nose and a pressure on his chest that wasn’t there before. Cracking one bleary eye open, he immediately regrets it, both as the early morning sunlight pierces his aching head and at the sight that he’s greeted with. Summoning up just enough strength to get the blood flowing in his arms, Bass heaves Miles off his chest. In retrospect, maybe he should have opened his eyes a little wider.

Even with his eyes closed, Bass knows his best friend’s voice and the yelp that accompanied a body falling onto the floor do not match up. Ignoring the stab of pain to his brain, Bass forces both eyes open, finds Miles sprawled out on the bed next to him, and a conspicuously empty space on the other side of his friend’s supine body.

The implications of the body dent in the blanket are fascinating.

“Oh god,” a voice moans from over the edge of the bed. “My brain doesn’t fit in my head.” Miles is still asleep, sprawled on his back on the bed, mouth open, limbs akimbo. It’s not the first time Bass has woken up in the same bed as Miles, usually after copious amounts of alcohol had been consumed. At least this time, Bass doesn’t have to check to make sure he’s still wearing pants and that his wallet is still there. Mexico had been… interesting.

“Charmer?” Bass’s voice cracks halfway through, but the answering whimper from the floor tells him who the mysterious bed partner is.

“Kid, you can’t hold your liquor for shit,” Miles says, not asleep but eyes still closed. Bass is unsurprised at his friend’s turn around rate. Miles has a camel-like reputation when it comes to alcohol unlike Bass who feels like something died in his mouth; he’s pretty sure it may have been living in the bottom of the whiskey bottle.

The empty one.

On the pillow next to him.

“I can hold my liquor just fine,” Logan is saying when Bass can get his brain to focus again. “That wasn’t liquor. That was Draino in a glass bottle.”

Laughing hurts, but Bass manages it anyway. Two bandaged hands reach over the edge of the bed, establish a tentative handhold and Logan slowly drags herself into view, blinking owlishly. Her hair looks electrified, a combination of being asleep and fighting the fire the night before. There’s a scratch along one cheek and her gray eyes are bloodshot, but she’s there and alive and breathing which is more than Bass can say for some of his men.

“I can’t feel my legs,” she mutters and proves that point by standing, wobbly as a newborn colt. Bass blinks up at her and gets a half-smile in return, a self-conscious hand brushing that wild hair out of her face. Miles still hasn’t opened his eyes.

“Morning,” Bass says, putting the over-active imagination that always used to get him in trouble in middle school to use. With very little effort, he can imagine Miles gone, just the two of them waking up together, her slipping out of bed and into his discarded shirt from the night before. The illusion is shattered as Logan moves to the window, staring into the distance.

“Barracks burned out,” she says and if she’s feeling any kind of pain from the hangover, it’s completely overshadowed by the expression that settles on her face, the memories of the events of last night visibly crossing her face. On the bed beside Bass, Miles opens his eyes. The banter is gone, reality slipping in to fill the empty space.

“I have to go see Valerie today,” Logan says, arms folding over her chest, a pose that Bass has come to recognize as the one she uses when the cracks are starting to show. “And Catherine.” The wives know already, know that their husband’s are dead, but that doesn’t mean that they are granted any kind of anonymity. Everyone knows and everyone will know when Logan walks out of HQ in her militia uniform. The militia doesn’t have the luxury of condolence officers. Everyone wears twelve different hats.

“We’re going to hunt them down,” Bass doesn’t so much blurt it out as make a definitive statement. Miles is quiet, staring up at the ceiling, but Bass knows his friend, knows the anger that’s quietly simmering beneath the surface. It’s a shared frustration, the knowledge that they’re still new at this, that the majority of the men in the barracks are lawyers and dentists. They're not trained for war, not like he and Bass are, and some of them? Some of them aren't  _made_ for war.

But Logan is watching him from the window, something akin to hope in her eyes and Bass steels himself, sits up further on the bed, ignores the spike of pain in his head from the jostling.

“We will hunt them down.” He says, feeling Miles’ gaze on the side of his face. “It’s their turn to burn.”


	3. Skyfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end  
> Hold your breath and count to ten  
> Feel the earth move and then  
> Hear my heart burst again
> 
> -Skyfall by Adele

* * *

_Where worlds collide and days are dark_

 

“This isn’t working,” the announcement is accompanied by a handful of eye-searing orange material, dropped unceremoniously on top of the map that Bass has spent the last two hours studying with Miles, targets chosen and cast aside as easily as if they were playing a game of Risk. Picking up one of the abandoned bandanas, Bass looks up into vaguely hesitant gray eyes, waits for that now familiar feeling of his world rocking on its axis to still. Everyone is stripped down in deference to the late summer heat wave, Miles and Bass included. Still, there's something about seeing Logan’s tank top cling to her sweat-slicked skin, long legs bared by a pair of cut-offs salvaged from a destroyed department store. Bass’s fingers itch to touch and he instead clenches them around the bandana.

 

“So what? What's the problem? Too constricting, not visible enough?” Miles asks, leaning back from the map with a sigh, the canvas camp chair creaking as he shifts his weight. “Not your _color_ , sweetheart?” That earns him some attention, Logan doing a pretty good approximation of Miles’ unimpressed flat stare, giving as good as she’s getting. Bass gently clears his throat, draws her focus back to him.

 

“It’s not enough,” she says when Bass quirks an eyebrow in silent prompting. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, the hunter-orange bandanas taken from a sporting goods store in some tiny town with empty streets and abandoned buildings. It was a quick and easy method of identification for their little rag-tag band especially given an almost deadly friendly fire incident two days ago.

 

“And what exactly is your suggestion, kid?” Miles asks, antagonistic in a manner that he adopts only when dealing with Logan, the two acting as a physical representation of the old saying ‘oil and water’. Logan ignores him, maintains eye contact with Bass, a flash of hesitancy in her eyes before her chapped lips part and she speaks.

 

“Uniforms,” One word to spark an outrage.

 

“Nuh-uh, no way.” Miles’ response is explosive, knocking his chair over as he stands. Logan squares her shoulders, takes a deep breath, but doesn't acknowledge the outburst. “That puts us one step away from goose-stepping through the forest.”

 

_That_ gets a reaction, an aborted lunge brought up short against Bass’s forearm as he prevents Logan from going for Miles’ throat, the latter not even moving under the threat of attack. Logan's skin is slick under his hands as he puts himself between the two combatants. Giving Miles his back, he nudges a finger under the girl's chin, makes eye contact asking the silent question. She exhales heavily, nods once, and steps out of his grasp, folding her arms over her chest. Bass’s arms miss her instantly. He distracts himself by shoving his hands in his pockets.

 

“Do I look like Joseph Goebbels to you, sir?” Logan asks, her gaze somewhere over Bass’s shoulder, burning through him, past him, aimed at his best friend.

 

“Once a mind-fucker, always a mind fucker,” Miles replies calmly. There is no reply, no scathing retort. Logan simply turns and stalks out, her spine rigid with undisguised fury. She still walks with a slight limp, the fresh pink scar along her hip causing a catch in her gait, leftovers of the attack on her unit that had brought her to Bass's attention in the first place. 

 

“She’s right,” Bass says, watching her disappear around a nearby tent, hands fisted at her sides. Behind him, there’s the sound of Miles picking up his chair, settling back into it with a grunt. “You know she’s right,” he turns then, meets his best friend’s eyes, sees the same overwhelming frustration in his expression that Bass feels as a lump in his chest on a daily basis.

 

“I know she’s right.” Miles says, chewing on his bottom lip as he stares at the tent flap. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Bass laughs, his voice empty even to his own ears and leans down, brushing the fluorescent bandanas off the map.

 

“What were you saying about reenacting Sherman’s March to the Sea?” he asks, dropping his finger onto the tiny dot that represents Nashville, Tennessee. Miles flicks one last look at the tent flap before he levers himself up to lean on the edge of the table, picking up where he’d left off before.

 

* * *

 

_Let the sky fall_  
 _When it crumbles_

 

The brand is a moment of idiocy fueled by liquor and enacted before any of them are sober enough to understand the connotations. There are now uniforms and camps and outposts and both Miles and Bass answer to “General” and have perfected the expressions of men who are heavily put upon. There is now call for something _more_ , something other than the name ‘militia’ to identify themselves with. That it doubles as a pledge of loyalty is merely an underlying theme.

 

Smithing isn’t necessarily a lost practice, but what is originally fashioned is rudimentary and looks like something a teenager made in shop class. The second effort is better, but as Bass presses the brand into her forearm, the artistry of the metal is the last thing on Logan’s mind. She bucks in Miles’ grip despite her intention to remain stoic, agony racing up her arm as the metal sears its intent into her skin, scorching through layers of dermis until it feels like it’s burning inside of her. Darkness tugs at the corners of her vision, pain washing over her, wave after wave and the only thing grounding her in reality are Miles’ arms wrapped steel band like around her torso, his soft voice in her ear, whispering assurances.

 

Logan comes to curled on her side in the soft grass, half a dozen pairs of boots in her line of sight as her arm throbs with every beat of her heart. Jeremy’s voice is somewhere above her, cracking jokes and providing color commentary of what she’s sure will become a wildly popular story about her fainting spell. Blinking against the bright sunshine, she swallows hard and stirs, one foot knocking against the legs of one of her observers. Jeremy crouches into view a few seconds later, hand settling companionably on her shoulder. She takes one look at his grin and groans, squeezing her eyes tightly shut again.

 

“Exactly how much crap am I going to get for passing out?” she asks, eyes still shut. Jeremy’s hand squeezes and releases and she cracks one eye, peering up at him. His grin is oddly reassuring.

 

“Few months tops,” he says, eyebrows waggling. “But probably even less than that because Simons puked all over the place before the damn thing even touched him.” She laughs, regrets it the second her body twitches with the humor, burned skin pulling in protest. Jeremy pats her shoulder again and straightens, giving her a clear view through the forest of legs surrounding her.

 

Beside the fire, Bass stands tall, one gloved hand on the handle of the brand, deep in conversation with Miles, a nervous looking line of men stretching out behind them, each awaiting their turn. Bass’s neck is taut with tension, his grip on the metal rod so tight that she can imagine how white his knuckles must be under the leather. It's a calculated risk, choosing Bass as the one to wield the brand, but the men fear Miles, probably as much they respect him so it seems right to have him act as the enforcer, holding the troops down as the metal burns loyalty into their flesh.

 

Through the legs of her men, Bass’s gaze catches hers, his head suddenly cocking to stare at her there on the ground, Miles's eyes not far behind, the collective possessiveness of their stares pinning her there. For a split second, she can't breathe, something mroe overwhelming than the burn on her arm sucking the air out of her lungs.

 

Miles Matheson and Sebastian Monroe, the two M’s in her life.

 

As they stare, Logan lets her head slip back down to the ground, eyes slipping shut again, the brand on her arm spiking afresh with pain.

 

There is an ‘M’, hot and fresh on her body, marking her, joining her to a single entity, but if someone were to ask her which man the ‘M’ stood for, she would have been unable to respond.

 

* * *

_We will stand tall_  
 _Face it all together_

 

“… positively archaic,” the Georgia Militia representative drawls, his nose wrinkled as he stares at Charmer from across the room. Miles knows the man’s attention isn’t on the expanse of smooth creamy skin exposed by the three unbuttoned buttons or the snug fit of her uniform trousers, but instead the exposed circle of white scar tissue on the underside of her right forearm. Leaning against the desk in the corner, Charmer lifts her arm, looks at the scar and then refolds her arms with an exaggerated slowness that only serves to further emphasize the mark. Her attitude is a slow burn, emphasized by the arching of her eyebrow and the jut of her hip.

 

“General Portman,” Bass is in top form today, smiling with a charm that Miles hasn’t seen used since before the Blackout. “Let’s not play ‘who’s the bigger monster’ here. I’ve seen what you do to prisoners in the Georgia militia.” An indignant flush crosses the other man’s face and he harrumphs once, shifting in his chair before he leans forward, eyes shrewd.

 

“Fine. You asked for this meetin’, General Monroe. Maybe we should get right to the point.” If Miles hadn’t worked up the plan himself, hadn't known to exist it, he would have missed the faint twitch of Charmer’s wrist, wouldn’t have known that a five six inch blade had just slipped into her palm, the action concealed by her folded arms. Bass leans back in his chair, hands folding across his stomach, cool and collected.

 

“The point. Interesting terminology given what I’ve called you here to discuss.” Portman's eyes narrow even further, realization blooming across his face.

 

“Those men were deserters from _your_ Militia, General. They were antagonistic in my territory and I handled the situation in the best way that I saw fit.” Miles can’t remember the last time he heard a southern accent sound menacing. The tone of Portman's voice is ice cold and unapologetic and it makes what they’re about to do even easier.

 

“By killing them and displaying their heads along our joined border atop of spikes?” Bass’s tone suddenly matches Portman's , the smile on his face now eerily soft. Clearly sensing the dangerous ground on which he treads, the Georgian sits back in his chair, glancing at his personal guard who are suddenly on visible edge, hands clutching weapon hilts, eyes swiveling around the room.

 

“You would have done different?” Portman asks, one hand twitching as if longing for the hilt of his sword. Miles shifts his weight to the balls of his feet carefully, sees Charmer and Jeremy out of the corner of his eye doing the same. Bass sits forward, elbows on his desk, looking like a school principal about to impart punishment on a naughty student.

 

“Of course not,” Bass’s words are accompanied by a laugh that chills Miles to the core. He knows that his friend has left play-acting behind, that this is real and that even though he is weaponless, Bass is very much the most dangerous man in the room. Bass leans forward even further as if imparting a secret, Portman matching his posture.

 

“In fact, I thought I would return the favor,” Bass’s voice is a whisper, but to Miles’ ears it’s a shouted command. His plan is whirl of blades, elegant in it's simplicity and the two guards directly behind the General fall easily under his blade. He turns just in time to watch Charmer shove away the limp body of her target, knife gleaming red as it slips out of the gap between two ribs. The man’s heart has become his own worst enemy, pumping blood through the stab wound, a small pool of it already forming on the wooden floor beneath him. She catches Miles watching, the corner of her mouth quirking up in an almost playful manner.

 

The Georgian general sits frozen in his chair, too shocked to even reach for his sword, something that Miles easily relieves him of, handing the ornately decorated weapon over to Bass.

 

“We have an accord,” Portmansays softly as if the words are almost too heavy to slip past his lips. “A treaty.” Bass draws the sword from its sheath and studies it in the light from the floor to ceiling windows. Charmer, knife freshly cleaned on the jacket of her target, steps up beside Miles, so close he can feel her body heat, the brush of her hand against his.

 

“We _had_ an accord.” Bass suddenly snaps, his smile vanishing. “We had an accord until you killed my men in cold blood.” The protest dies on Portman's lips, realization clearly setting in, one hand spasming on the arm of the chair.

 

“So we have a message for the Georgian militia,” Bass says, extending the sword until the tip nudges the misappropriated medals decorating the front of the Georgian’s jacket, commendations for missions never participated in, in service never served. A flick of Bass's wrist and one medal drops off, clattering to the floor. As far as silent signals go, it's a dramatic one.

 

Miles steps smoothly forward and draws his blade across Portman's throat, severing arteries and skin in one stroke. Blood spatter decorates the desk and floor, Bass having stepped back just in time to avoid the red shower. As the General’s twitching body slumps forward out of the chair, Bass turns to the corner where the last of the General’s personal guard is on his knees under the watch of Jeremy, terror scrawled across his features.

 

Fingers brush as Charmer hands Miles a cloth for his blade, her skin soft and warm and he lets his hand linger a split second longer than is proper, making sure she meets his gaze, makes sure she understands the silent intent in his expression, that this is _not_ the last time that this will happen. Bass comes around the desk, insinuating himself into their cluster, his shoulder pressing against Miles’ in solidarity, his hand rising to settle onto Charmer’s shoulder as he smiles at the remaining Georgian militiaman.

 

“Think you can pass along that message, sergeant?”


	4. If I Didn't Know Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a hole in what you're saying  
> I can plainly see  
> You have a lover that's waiting but baby you're right   
> Here with me
> 
> \- If I Didn't Know Better by The Civil Wars

_If I didn't know better I'd hang my hat right there_

_If I didn't know better I'd follow you up the stairs_

 

Logan has a big family: four brothers, two sisters, and that isn’t even counting the foster kids that their parents often take in. The neighborhood calls their 24-acre Oregon farm the Circle Crazy Ranch and no one in her family ever denies it. Logan is used to a house that’s never quiet and a complete lack of privacy, to hand-me-downs and having to fight for things at the dinner table.

 

The Marines are a natural fit.

 

Basic is tough, physically and mentally and she spends more than a few nights lying awake, tears in the corners of her eyes, wanting to be home, but she has her father’s stubbornness and she sticks it out. Her entire family (and half her hometown, it seems) is present for her graduation and she stands in the rows of her fellow Marines and stares straight ahead, trying not to smile.

 

Her MOS lands her at Lejeune straight out of Basic, locked in a classroom for eight hours a day with forty-nine Marines, forty-eight men and one other woman who has no interest in female solidarity let alone the basic offering of friendship. Logan watches the power points flash by and takes far too detailed notes, fires her hand into the air any time a question is asked and is lonely.

 

“Let me guess…” the voice is a slow honeyed drawl over her cold fettuccine alfredo and Logan looks up to see one of the instructors, Captain Peretti standing there with a grin, tray in hand. “Middle child?”

 

“That obvious, sir?” she asks, gesturing at the chair across from her, just in case. To her surprise, his grin widens and he slides into the seat, his knees bumping hers under the table. He’s handsome, graying at the temples and she’s been locked in a room with sixty people who won’t give her the time of day.

 

“Only because I know what to look for.” Peretti says, holds out a hand that she shakes, her soft palm catching on his calloused skin. “Hi, Captain Allen Peretti, middle child in a family of five. You?” Logan laughs, holds up nine fingers because that had been the head count when she’d left home. His eyes widen exaggeratedly and she laughs again. It’s been a while since that happened.

 

Two casual lunch meet-ups turn into a chance meeting when she goes off-base one weekend. Logan is headed for a local sports bar in the hopes that she can catch the Ducks season opener on one of the screens and the Captain is casual in a button down and jeans, smiling on her from the other side of the gate.

 

Lunch on-base and football games off-base turns into dinner at a little Italian place where the wait staff know him by name and flirt with her over the lasagna. It only seems logical that the next thing is to wake up in an empty bed in the officer’s bachelor quarters. The Captain is in the other room, quietly arguing on the phone, telling his wife he won’t be home tonight, that something’s come up on the base. Logan pretends to be asleep when he comes back, when he pulls her close, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of her neck. She doesn’t mention the phone call, he doesn’t wear his ring when they’re together, and for the first time in a long time, Logan isn’t lonely.

 

Three weeks later, the Blackout happens, the world implodes, and the last memory Logan has of the Captain is of his back as he and some of the other married Marines band together to go to the off-base housing, to find their loved ones, to do… something, she’s not sure. No one’s really sure, not with a total communications blackout. All she knows definitively is that he never looks back, not once, but she doesn’t dwell on it. Anyway, it just seems trivial when she’s lying on the black and white tile floor of the base Walgreens, blood pooling around her, blackness tugging at the corners of her vision.

 

Logan wakes up to rough bandages on overly sensitive skin, to ice blue eyes and a sharp face that promises her safety and protection, and the cold dismissal of a dark-haired man who looks a lot like the Captain. It’s not till later with the last rays of a sunny day peeking through the window that the doctor comes in, hesitant and apologetic in the same breath, tells her about the baby, uses words that would make sense if he had documented proof to back it up, a computer to show diagrams and explain the grieving process.

 

Later, alone in the pitch-black room, Logan presses her face into the pillow case that almost smells like bleach and cries for the child she never knew.

 

* * *

 

_Why do I keep drinking?_

_Wasting my time on you?_

 

“General Matheson,” one of the new recruits murmurs at his side as Miles watches the men on the grass, watches Jeremy take an overly cocky recruit apart with the kind of precision Miles wishes all his officers exhibited. He half-turns, sees a pretty face with warm brown eyes and a hesitant smile.

 

“Yes, Corporal…” he trails off as a prompt and she helpfully supplies ‘Nora’, tacking a deferential sir on the end. She’s new, too new to be aware that no one smiles at him or too new to realize that her freshly-pressed uniform will look like hell by the end of the week.

 

“General Monroe would like to see you, sir,” so, one of the new runners then. A courier position means she doesn’t have any practical military experience, but that she’s quick and can think on her feet. Miles glances back at Jeremy’s sparring session and finds himself making eye contact with Charmer across the circle of gathered soldiers. The young woman is watching him from beneath the shadow of a baseball cap, clad casually in loose pants and a t-shirt, waiting her turn in the ring. There’s a smirk on her face, half-amusement, half-something else, something darker. He can practically hear her thoughts, reading her reaction to Nora in the curve of her lips. Miles clenches his jaw, willing his body not to react.

 

“General?” Nora speaks again, tilting her head in his peripheral vision, trying to get his attention. Charmer is still watching, arms folded loosely, feet in an approximation of a parade rest formation, challenge in the length of her body. The smirk widens when he makes eye contact again and when Miles turns to leave, he’s hard pressed to convince himself that he’s not running.

 

Nora is pretty and young. She thinks he hung the moon and Miles doesn’t disabuse her of that notion, doesn’t tell her how many people he killed so he could get access to the moon in the first place. It’s nice for once to be someone’s hero and not just the monster in the closet. Nora’s spot in his bed is a position of some envy in the Republic, the General’s paramour—which sounds classier than the girl he fucks when he’s at the Capital—and she takes to the role in a way that doesn’t make her seem easy, no matter what is whispered in the barracks. Her background in chemistry quickly boosts her past the role of courier and there’s something to be said for status in this burgeoning nation. Miles thinks he could almost be happy with the way things are going.

 

Almost.

 

Miles has to remind himself that Charmer is only in her early twenties, that if the Blackout had never happened, that she would be doing things that twenty-something’s do: drink, party, date, spend time with people her own age. He has to remind himself because her professional competency is a mantle that she wears like armor, the title of lieutenant a sword that she wields with precision. From the way she carried herself, no one would have guessed that she was almost a full decade younger than the majority of the people in the room.

 

That’s why it’s like a punch in the gut when one of the captains—a former Special Forces operative with a scar that rakes down his throat—leans in unnecessarily close and says something to her _sotto voce_ during a strategy meeting and Charmer flushes, pink blossoming along her cheekbones and down her pale throat. Only because Miles is watching Bass pace the room while he talks does he even notice the exchange. Bass blessedly misses it, caught up in mediating an argument between a former police officer and a Marine sergeant who has been folded into the command ranks.

 

As if she can feel his gaze, Charmer looks up at him through her eyelashes, cheeks still flushed from the exchange and Miles, well, Miles can’t look away, caught up in the sudden revelation behind those eyes and the way that her teeth tug at her bottom lip for a brief moment. All that defensive armor is stripped away and what’s left is… enticing. He wonders what would have happened if they’d met before in a bar somewhere, just a boy and a girl, a Saturday night with ZZ Top in the background, a beer in hand.

 

_“Hi,” a body curves into the space between him and the next guy at the bar, waves of long dark hair and smiling eyes filling Miles’ gaze. Her hip bumps his and when the guy on her other side shifts his weight, she moves even closer, a bump becoming prolonged contact. It’s forward and a little unnerving, but she’s got a grin that’s a little shy and the biggest gray eyes he’s ever seen and he thinks this might be her first time in a bar._

_“Hi,” Miles replies, fingers tightening around his beer bottle. This isn’t his kind of place, this is Bass’s hunting ground. Miles is just along for the ride, here in case things get messy or interesting. It’s gone either way hundreds of times since Basic and before._

_“Logan,” she offers a slim hand, blue polish sparkling on her nails. Miles shakes, reveling in smooth skin under his fingers. He puts her somewhere around twenty, maybe twenty-one, probably with the crowd from the local college._

_“Miles,” he says, pretty sure he’s not imagining the lingering contact of her fingers. She smiles, flirty but still a little shy, a flash of white teeth behind full red lips and he responds in kind, the reaction automatic._

_“Well, you gonna buy me a drink, Miles?”_

Half a scenario plays out in Miles’ head in the split second of eye contact and it’s only the raised voices of the men at the end of the table that draw him back to the present. He makes a point of not looking at Charmer for the rest of the meeting and as soon as he gets home, he crawls headfirst into the bottom of a whiskey bottle, ignoring Nora’s concerned looks.

 

The next morning Charmer is asleep at the conference table in the War Room, having never left the night before, head pillowed on one arm, Jeremy’s jacket around her shoulders. Miles is hung over, adding to his ongoing bad mood from the day before, but he waits a beat and watches her sleep, letting himself absorb every last detail from the way her lips are slightly parted to the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders and the strands of black hair that curl around her ears. Only then does he reach over and select a heavy dusty tome from a nearby desk, peeling his fingers away from the cover deliberately until it hits the floor with a sharp crack. Charmer jerks awake with a yelp, looking blearily around the War Room until she focuses on him in the corner.

 

“Morning,” he says and lifts his coffee mug in a mock salute. She doesn’t say anything, but her sigh as her head slumps back onto the table speaks volumes.

 

* * *

 

_Ooh, you might as well be the devil_

_Oh, keeping me out past three_

_Oh, you're the one with that apple so baby you can't blame me_

 

As far as military operations go, they’ve had worse and damnit, Bass hates that he now has to count _only_ three men dead as an acceptable loss. Across the War Room, Logan is in conversation with Jeremy, heads bent towards each other, working out which one will be sweeping up the remainder of the mess, a contest that will undoubtedly amount to rock, paper, scissors. Logan stretches with a wince as she speaks, one hand coming up to massage the juncture of her shoulder and neck, clearly still feeling the blow from earlier when Tom Neville had knocked her backwards out of a booby-trapped doorway. Bass thinks he might be the only one to see the fine tremor in her fingers, to feel the answering shake in his own digits.

 

There’s intel to review, AAR’s to finish—one of many things the Marines instilled in Bass was the importance of obvious things in triplicate—and injured to check on, but Bass doesn’t want to. He wants to sit down, sleep for days, to wake up and have everything be normal again. It was their first op since Miles and the betrayal, since Logan almost died _again_ , but Bass has stopped being surprised at how goddamn stubborn she is and now just waits for her to open her eyes.

 

“Can I have the room, gentlemen?” Logan’s voice suddenly rings out over the quiet murmur of the captains. Bass looks up from the compass that he’s toying with, staring blindly at the spinning arrow. She’s standing closer now, arms crossed and in the candlelight, she looks fierce and determined and that’s probably why no one argues, just quietly shuffles out. The door clicks shut, loud in the silence, and Bass arches an eyebrow.

 

“Well, as far as—” is all that has time to fall from his mouth before Logan is suddenly there, her mouth hard and insistent against his. Even in his surprise, Bass retains enough brainpower to loop an arm around her, to hold her tight. This is… not what he’d expected when she’d asked for the room. A lecture, questions about his emotional state, sure, but the woman he’s been in love with for nine years kissing him on the table where they plan precision military strikes hadn’t even entered his mind.

 

Logan whimpers against his mouth as the kiss turns downright filthy, fingers digging into his shoulders. Bass responds with a groan, spreading his legs to pull her closer. Christ, one kiss and he’s half-hard, hips rocking against hers. There’s desperation and want in the kiss, the way her tongue slides against his, the way their mouths slant across each other and Bass can feel the answering emotions in his own body. His arm tightens around her.

 

Logan breaks away, mouth pink and kiss-swollen, breathing heavily and Bass grits his teeth as her fingers go to work on the buttons of his jacket, showing an admirable single-mindedness. He’s impressed because he can’t think past his erection and yet she has the presence of mind to get them naked. It’s only when he glances down as her fingers fumble over a button that he remembers the tremors, the adrenaline racing in their systems. Ignoring her wordless protest, he tugs her back to him, buries his face in the side of her neck, pressing his lips to the racing pulse in the hollow of her throat.

 

“I’m sorry,” Bass murmurs against her skin, kissing as much as talking because he knows once he gets it all out, once he says what he needs to, she’s going to walk away. Her hands pause on the buttons even as her head tilts back under his questing mouth and the sheer trust she’s showing, baring her throat like that makes him groan, almost makes him forget.

 

“I’m not him,” Bass gasps against her throat, the words wrenched from somewhere deep inside. Logan freezes, a sudden terrible stillness taking over her body. He continues, the words now coming involuntarily. “I can’t be him and I know that’s what you want. I know you love him instead of me.” Silence, long and painful, stretches between them, Bass’s forehead on her shoulder, his body tensed for the movement of sudden rejection, bracing himself for the fall.

 

He’s not braced though for warm palms cupping his face and raising his head to meet quicksilver eyes that are full of an emotion that isn’t sympathy. Logan leans in and kisses him softly, her thumbs stroking his stubble-covered cheeks. This kiss is different, no desperation, no frantic need, this is something to fall into, something that promises time and comfort.

 

“What makes you think I don’t love you, Bass?” Logan whispers against his mouth, her breath mingling with his. It’s hard to think so close to her, her scent wrapped around him, her hands on his skin, but he forces himself to focus to keep his traitorous hands clamped firmly around her waist instead of roaming, touching.

 

“I’m not Miles,” Bass says, proud that he sounds calm and collected. It’s a flash of a reaction, something bursting across her face and then disappearing with a shuttering blink of her eyes. Logan moves to step back, straining against his hands, but he doesn’t let go, draws her back in. “You _can’t_ love me because I’m not _him_.” He regrets it the minute he says it, feels the tension spring back to life in her body. Lying to himself would have simply been easier.

 

Logan’s fast, but he’s faster, catching her wrist before her palm can connect with his face. She trembles in his grip, although the glistening in her eyes tells him it’s not just from anger. They stay like that, frozen, staring at each other until there’s a knock on the door, two sharp taps followed by a beat and then another tap, Jeremy’s code.

 

“Not right now,” Logan calls, taking the words from Bass and throwing them against the door. Slowly, she lowers her arm, but Bass doesn’t let go of her wrist, his fingers pressed to the pulse point there, feeling her still frantic heartbeat. Her eyes close for a moment, squeezed tightly shut and she exhales heavily, but then they open again and they’re warm and gentle.

 

“You’re an idiot.” Logan says softly, pushes forward until they’re nose-to-nose, her face tilted up to meet his. The kiss is chaste, just a brush of lips. Bass stubbornly remains still even as his body betrays again, cock twitching in interest. Pressing her forehead to his, she opens her eyes so close that he can see each individual eyelash.

 

“I could have died today,” Logan says and his hands tighten in their respective grips, his thumb moving of its own volition against the skin of her wrist. “Do you want to know why I love you, Bass?” He wants to shake his head, shake her off, return to the bustle and noise of a full war room where he doesn’t have to admit anything, admit to a weakness.

 

“You’re always there when I wake up,” the wrist that he holds hostage suddenly moves, pulling out of his limp grasp. Bass sucks in a sharp breath as she takes his hand this time, presses it against her stomach, over the fabric that covers the latest scar, a lurid shiny pink affair that curves just over her right hipbone, crookedly sutured just like the other half a dozen that litter her body. Bass chokes and reaches up, grabs the back of her neck, drags her up for another kiss, this time pouring his own nine years of desire and desperation and fear into it. She leans into him, her hands clutching the front of his jacket, body arching into his.

 

Another sequence knock from Jeremy on the door and Bass reluctantly drags his mouth away from Logan’s, taking satisfaction in the fact that she looks as wrecked as he feels, that she’s breathing just as hard, pupils dilated, cheeks flushed.

 

“Just a second,” Bass calls and his voice cracks halfway through, making Logan smile, just a hint at the corners of her mouth, but it’s enough for him. For the first time in a long time, he gives in, lets himself have something and buries his hands in her hair, pulling her mouth back against his. By the time the captains file back into the room, Bass is leaning over a pile of half-finished AARs at the huge table and Logan is across the room at one of the roll-top desks, her back to him, studiously bent over a report of her own, pencil scratching steadily over the rough paper. Jeremy sideways smirks at Bass, but that’s it.

 

Logan goes back to her room that night by herself and Bass goes back to his room, the ghost of soft skin and even softer lips following close behind.


End file.
